


🍑

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Biting, Bruises, Cake, Extremely Tiny Underpants, Finger Sucking, Intercrural Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 00:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19051642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: Pining, cream cakes, very tiny underpants, and the biting of beautiful thighs.





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**Author's Note:**

> With love to my comrades in the Taron's Sensational Thighs And Very Small Hotpants Fan Club.
> 
> I blame [this interview.](https://twitter.com/EW/status/1133484839061995521)

The way these undercover missions usually go involves a level of schmoozing that stopped being fun in about 1986.

Harry sips his martini, glancing about the ballroom. On the other end of his glasses feed is Kingsman, countless people staring at their monitors trying to match the position of walls and doors to stolen blueprints that turned out to be wrong. Whether that was someone's mistake or deliberately planted by the targets to trip up anyone who might come snooping about, Harry doesn't know and doesn't care to know. It's not his business. Getting a result is his business.

"Where are you going?" Merlin asks in his ear when Harry sets his empty glass down on the bar and heads for the door.

Harry texts a rapid reply from his lenses: _Up the wall, in through a window._

A long silence, then a longer sigh. "What's wrong with the tried and tested approach of simply walking up the stairs so confidently that nobody asks what you're doing?"

"Which stairs?" Harry murmurs, barely moving his lips or making a sound and trusting his microphone to catch it. He thinks it's a fairly reasonable question under the circumstances. "It's like the bloody Winchester house in here. Find me a route, or I'll find one myself."

The gardens are dimly lit by strings of fairy lights that don't quite reach far enough into all the shadows to deter couples from getting up to mischief in various corners and behind bits of topiary. Harry lingers beneath a rose bower pretending to admire the flowers in case there's anybody not sufficiently distracted by their partner's wandering hands, then very casually with barely a movement he flicks a button cover off his jacket and the tiny gadget flies up into the night sky, transmitting a dizzying video to his lenses as it swoops and hovers in front of the fourth floor windows. Only two are lit, and it's the second one that turns out to be their target's office, recognisable as such because the vain bastard has a huge oil portrait of himself hanging behind his desk.

Ten seconds later when Harry's dangling from his fingertips off the second floor balcony, Merlin says drily, "Show off."

There's no reply Harry can give to that but more showing off, which he does with relish: hauling himself up the fancy ironwork, springing as lightly as a cat to the balustrade of the next balcony, using the momentum to push immediately back off and fling himself at a drainpipe, which he scrambles up effortlessly to the next level. There's no time for thought, not here— _if you think_ , Eggsy said with uncharacteristic seriousness when he was teaching Harry how to do all of this, _you'll fall. You got to trust your instincts. You practice enough, your body just knows what to do. If you let your brain start spouting good sense you're gonna lose your next foothold and SPLAT, and that ain't something I want on my conscience, thanks_.

"I can't wait for you to retire," is the first thing Merlin says when Harry gets back to HQ twelve hours later with a dozen henchmen's blood crusted on his knuckles and presents him with a thumb drive of unencrypted contact details sucked from the target's computer.

Harry settles his face into his very best innocent Disney princess expression, wide eyes and brows raised and mouth slightly open in a _who, me?_ sort of surprise, mainly because he knows Merlin finds it incredibly annoying and has done for the last thirty years. "Really, Merlin. I complete my mission five days ahead of schedule, saving you god knows how much money in resources, and you carry on like I kicked your cat."

"I hold onto this ridiculous hope that one day you'll learn what a 'plan' is and how to stick to it, but—"

"Well, that sounds like a you problem, not a me problem," Harry interrupts, patting Merlin comfortingly on the shoulder as he passes his spinny chair on the way to the shuttle.

He's halfway back to the shop before he realises he picked that one up from Eggsy somewhere over the last two years, and texts Merlin over his glasses even as he's trying to stifle his laughter.

_Sincere apologies. Eggsy is a terrible influence._

A minute later, Merlin's reply flashes up on his lenses. _Astounding how both of you manage to absorb each other's worst habits and none of the good._

 _Nonsense_ , Harry shoots back. _Didn't you see me scaling those walls like Spider-Man?_

Merlin doesn't bother responding to that one, which means either he was actually impressed by Harry's new parkour skills and doesn't want to say so or he's gone for an aspirin and a lie down. Harry blinks to close the connection then settles back in his seat, muscles aching in that loose, delicious sort of way they always do after a good fight. He's all ready to drift into a pleasant daydream about the two hour long bubble bath and half a bottle of wine waiting for him at home, but his brain's being difficult and decides to throw pictures of Eggsy at him instead. It seems to do that more and more lately.

 _Remember that time he told you 'Great job, Harry' when you backflipped over him in the gym and you got goosebumps on your arms?_ his brain supplies eagerly, like a school bully who keeps a neatly-indexed list of all your awkward and embarrassing moments to bring up every time you think you're doing well. _Remember that? If you had a tail you'd have been wagging it, wouldn't you? Remember? What about the Christmas party when he draped himself over your lap and put a reindeer antlers headband on you and took a selfie and you could smell his aftershave on your shirt all night but you wouldn't let yourself dwell on it because he was doing it to everyone and you're not special? Remember? Hey, do you remember that day he saw you struggling to fasten your cufflink with a broken hand and came over and did it for you and you could feel the aftershock of his fingers on your wrist for the next nineteen hours?_

"Ugh," Harry says out loud into the train carriage. It's an unsatisfying feeble little sound. If Eggsy really were rubbing off his bad habits onto Harry then he'd stand up right here and stomp his foot like a toddler... and now he's holding back laughter again, literally holding back with his fingers pressed to his lips in case Merlin or someone happens to glance at the security monitors and witnesses him giggling like a fucking idiot over a grown man's habit for throwing inexplicably bratty tantrums. This has to stop. Really, it's becoming too much.

("I appear to have developed what the young people call 'the hots' for someone I shouldn't," Harry said on that Christmas party night, cooling his burning cheeks in the chilly night air on the balcony with Merlin and a half-finished bottle of Dalmore they'd filched from someone's office, and Merlin gave him a pitying sideways look and said, "Absolutely nobody calls it that. You're drunk." That was the last time it was ever mentioned, although Merlin occasionally asks if he Wants To Talk while wearing a weary but compassionate sort of expression, and it's quite nice, really, to know he actually does care.)

It's sunny outside, blazingly bright after lingering in the dimness of the shop to put his greedy paws all over the irresistible bolts of new fabric and place some orders for new suits, but breezy and cool. A nice day for a walk and a think. Well, more of a self-lecture than a think. A stern talking-to about what's acceptable in your mid-fifties and what probably ought to have been left behind several decades ago. Casual flings are one thing, and an activity he's still extremely fond of and has no intention of quitting as long as his back holds out, but all this... _basking_. This heart-flutter feeling of prohibited attraction. Dwelling on it. Feasting on it. It's probably not healthy or entirely sane, and it certainly can't be welcome. There's an unquestionable chemistry there, everyone can see that, but it's the chemistry of an odd mismatched friendship that's morphed from extremely flattering hero-worship to something precious and genuine. The idea of ever, ever ruining something he treasures as much as his friendship with Eggsy is more horrifying than even the perpetual threat of torture and death they put up with in this ridiculous job.

So all that considered, he's not quite sure how he finds himself on Eggsy's doorstep a short while later holding a box full of fancy cakes that look designed by a committee of cupids, but it's too fucking late now.

"Hang on a minute," Eggsy yells from inside after Harry rings the bell, "I got no trousers on."

"It's only me," Harry calls back, then spends a good five seconds despairingly asking himself WHY before there's the click and rattle of the lock and chain and Eggsy opens the door to let him in.

As warned, he's not wearing trousers. Or a top, for that matter, or socks or shoes.

Rude of him not to mention that his underpants are _tiny_ and printed with a Captain America shield on the back, the star of which is positioned with such symmetrical precision that the middle section of it disappears when Eggsy grins his greeting and turns to go back into the house, pulled into the crease between his buttocks as he saunters along the hall.

"You didn't die, then," Eggsy comments when they reach the living room. He flings himself into the Eggsy-shaped dent in his giant beanbag and picks up his controller, smashing the buttons to start shooting zombies on his massive television screen again while Harry hovers in the doorway feeling dry in the mouth and damp in the armpits.

"Not this time."

"You get a chance to do the parkour shit like I showed you?"

"Yes."

That makes Eggsy laugh, delighted maybe at the mental image of Harry hopping down the side of a building balcony by balcony with not an ounce of fear, the same exhilarated way he laughed when he pronounced Harry good enough for a test and sent him bounding up the side of the mansion to go and bang on Merlin's window and give him the fright of his life. "Nice one. Bet their eyes fucking popped out. What about Merlin, was he impressed?"

Harry takes a seat on the sofa, putting the patisserie box on the coffee table next to a couple of empty Red Bull cans and the congealing remnants of chips and gravy at the bottom of a twist of paper turned translucent with cooled grease. "He says we're taking on each other's worst qualities and none of the good."

"Bollocks, he's just jealous _he_ can't do a backflip at fifty-six." Eggsy glances over and notices the box for the first time, tipping his head back to grin at Harry upside down before he returns to his massacre. "Bought me a present?"

"Yes, well, it was supposed to be a get well soon gift, but you're a picture of good health and happiness so maybe I'll eat them all myself."

He really, really does look well, and it's not Harry's infatuation doing a Photoshop job on him. Or not only that, at least. It's been over two months since Harry saw him the day before leaving on his mission, and Eggsy was pale and morose then and not at all in the mood for company, scratching moodily at the skin around the top of the cast on his healing ankle and glaring poisonously at anyone who dared to offer him any sympathy. Restlessness eats away at Eggsy like a plague; easy to recognise, because Harry's exactly the same. Being confined to bed rest or desk work where he can't get the adrenaline hit of fighting for his life affects Eggsy terribly now he's aware of all the wonders he's capable of, and when Harry left they parted on terms that weren't exactly bad, but were decidedly Not Great. There was a bitterness in Eggsy's smile and in the sullen, sarcastic way he told Harry _have fun_ , and Harry couldn't think of adequate words of comfort because he was too focused on telling himself how absurd and obscene it was to want to hug him and never let go.

But he looks so _relaxed_ now, joking and laughing with the same old ease he did before he was grounded. It was a nasty break and these several months of healing have softened all the lines he used to sculpt so carefully in the gym every morning, blurring his abs and pecs away and leaving him with gentle, lovely swells of flesh above the too-tight waistband of his underpants. It suits him. Not only the softness of him, but the uninhibited way he's sitting there: legs splayed, naked thighs cradled in their beanbag divots, hammering away furiously at his controller until he finishes his killing spree and punches the air in triumph. The hairs on his bare arm glint like gold in the sunlight streaking in between the blinds. Harry can't remember the last time he was shaken to the core like this by _arm hairs_. He was probably fourteen. It's a very fourteen-years-old sort of emotion.

"Sorry," Eggsy says, stretching his bare leg to turn off the television with his big toe and surely not thinking to consider what this unselfconscious show of elastic muscles and gymnastic grace is doing to Harry's heart. "Been trying to finish that level for fucking _days_ , needed to stay in the zone. I'd come and hug you hello now but"—he pauses, gesturing down at himself with a flourish like a stage magician making sure you're looking at the right part of the trick—"ain't really in my polite company outfit."

Harry's carefully trying to think of a way to say _I don't mind_ that doesn't sound completely perverted, but Eggsy must take his hesitation as discomfort because he heaves himself out of his beanbag crater then and races upstairs, coming back down wearing his most offensive cut-off tracksuit bottoms and yanking a t-shirt over his head. This actually doesn't help anything at all: the t-shirt is _tight_ , the plain white cotton of it stretching in gentle ripples over Eggsy's chest as he tugs it down, and the sleeve hems just very slightly pressing into his arms. When he walks back through the living room door and right into Harry's personal space to drag him to his feet and hug him there's the wafted scent of fabric softener that surrounds them both with imaginary flowers.

It's a very, very lovely hug. It was an interesting discovery, not only finding out that Eggsy was such a gratuitous hugger but finding out that Harry himself could be won over to that side so easily after a lifetime of preferring handshakes and stoic shoulder-clasps. Eggsy hugs everyone he loves to say hello and goodbye and thank you and good luck and well done and a million other different things; it's like a language for him, and where he places his hands or how long he holds on for or whether or not he pats the other person's back before letting go all have different mystifying nuances that Harry's quite sure he'll never learn, although he's very much in favour of getting all this practice in. This particular hug lingers on for a good half a minute, one of Eggsy's hands resting on the back of Harry's neck, half on his shirt collar and half thrillingly hot and electric against the skin below his trimmed hair. There's always an odd moment of mild panic when Harry has no idea what to do with his own hands, but they settle eventually on Eggsy's back and he can't resist giving him just a little bit of a squeeze in return. Feels the warmth and solid weight of him pressed against Harry's own body, and the gentle up and down motion of his breathing, the tickle of it against Harry's cheek and ear making him shiver pleasantly in a way he hopes isn't too obvious.

"So, yeah... hi," Eggsy says eventually, drawing back enough to treat Harry to a smile of such brilliant loveliness that Harry just wants to drag him back and cling to him in a way that will only embarrass them both. He lets him go instead, opting for propriety as always and probably, almost definitely, the fleeting moment of disappointment in Eggsy's wavering smile when Harry's arms undrape from around his waist is a figment of a dirty old man's overactive imagination and disgraceful wishful thinking. "You want a beer and you can tell me about your mission?"

"Yes to the beer," Harry says, then narrows his eyes in fake-reproach, "and no to the mission stories. You know that's classified."

" _Uuugghh_ ," Eggsy groans. He bends over at the mini fridge beside the sofa (holy god) to retrieve a couple of cans. "What do you think's gonna happen, Merlin's gonna come flying in here like Dracula and start wagging his finger?"

"Not entirely beyond the realms of possibility, is it?"

"Thanks, I needed a new nightmare." Laughter glints in him, in his wide green eyes and the way his smile sets off dimples to bracket his pretty mouth. He edges around Harry's knees to take a seat beside him, and starts clearing the sprawled chip detritus off the coffee table, scrunching the leftover food and the empty cans down and balling up the paper. "Sorry the place is such a tip. Might've been overusing the knackered ankle excuse a bit. Really I'm just a lazy fucking arsehole. Ain't much of a welcome back for you, is it?"

 _Don't be absurd_ , Harry wants to tell him, _I'd rather be in your pigsty house with you than any palace in the world with someone else_. Of course he doesn't say anything of the sort, just reaches for the patisserie box and nudges it closer to Eggsy, who's eyeing it with eager interest. "I've heard knackered ankles heal more quickly with the help of cream cakes."

"Harry, you're literally an angel." Eggsy unfastens the ribbon and flips up the cardboard lid, eyeing the four eclairs lined up inside like perfect little jewels. "So what's what?"

"Dark chocolate and Earl Grey," Harry says, fingertips hovering over each in turn. "Raspberry and rose. Blackberry cheesecake. Salted butter caramel."

"They're so _pretty_ ," Eggsy croons in the same voice he uses when he's praising a passing stranger's extremely tiny dog, then looks vaguely embarrassed with himself and laughs a bit, taking a self-conscious swallow of beer. "Almost don't wanna eat these, seems rude to put your mouth all over art like that. Like sucking off the David statue for instagram."

"People don't do that, surely?" Harry asks, fascinated and horrified, caught somewhere extraordinarily painful between being disgusted at the idea of such sacrilege and knowing he's still going to spend the next several nights picturing Eggsy getting off with a very pale giant now the idea's been planted. Eggsy just grins and shoves the box closer to Harry.

"You pick first."

"No, you, I insist. They're a gift, after all."

"Yeah, but how am I meant to choose? They're all fucking masterpieces." His hand hovers over the box for a moment, fingers twiddling in a way that makes Harry wonder whether he's doing a silent _eeny meeny miny moe_ , then he carefully lifts the blackberry one, gives it a hungry inspection from every angle, and takes a bite. Pink cheesecake cream immediately oozes out of the sides, clinging stickily to his fingers and thumb, and he takes his merry time licking it all back off again making lush little _mmm_ noises the whole way.

Harry stares very hard at the tiny print on the label of his beer bottle, willing the sweat at his temples to get back inside his skin and stop causing a scene.

"Oh my god it's _actually cheesecake_ on the bottom, it's biscuit crumbs." _Yes_ , Harry thinks despairingly, _I can see that, your cursed tongue is chasing every single spilled one around and around your fingers_. "You didn't have to go fucking nuts, I woulda been more than happy with some limp soggy Greggs offering."

"I've never been in a Greggs and I certainly don't intend to start now," Harry says, eyes still averted, although he can't block out the sloppy sounds of Eggsy's greedy tongue cleaning up the last of the spillage. "You deserve—"

He stops abruptly before he can embarrass himself further. So does Eggsy, hesitating with his first two fingers lodged in his mouth to the middle knuckle then sliding them out wetly, glistening with saliva and the last traces of leftover cream. "What?" he asks, giving Harry a bit of teasing side-eye and a nudge in the arm with his elbow.

"Nicer things than that," Harry manages.

"Well, first of all fuck you because Greggs is the actual bollocks and you're a snob." Suddenly Harry finds the eclair in front of his face, held up so close to him that his eyes can't focus on it and it blurs into a pinkish smudge. "Let's half and half these, I don't wanna miss out on any of them."

Too taken aback to do anything else, Harry obediently takes a bite of the eclair. Again, the filling oozes out the sides as the layers compress, coating Eggsy's sticky fingertips anew.

"Huh," Eggsy says softly, turning his hand this way and that, inspecting the mess of cream and crumbs. He's crept closer, the warmth of his leg pressed right up to Harry's. "You missed a bit."

Perhaps more than most people a Kingsman agent should understand the value of a good long hard think before you go barging into something foolish, but Harry's never really been very good at that sort of thing. He can fixate and fret as well as anyone, but still there's that impudent little gremlin somewhere deep down in his brain that springs shamelessly to life the moment it sees a monumental opportunity open up that didn't seem to be there before. It's the thing that gets him flinging himself up the outside of a house without permission to steal vital information. It's also the thing that makes him look Eggsy brazenly in the eye and suck both offered fingers between his lips.

Eggsy makes a beautiful, unspellable little noise in his throat. Voice trembling, very quietly, he says, "Good, right?"

"Wonderful," Harry murmurs, holding Eggsy by the wrist to turn his hand over and clean off every speck of cream with his ravenous tongue.

"You want some more?"

"Yes, please."

Eggsy gives a startled, hushed little giggle, as though he'd expected a different answer and is absolutely blindsided to have received this one. He squeezes the eclair gently in his other hand, scooping a fingerful of bulging cream filling from the side and bringing it back to Harry's mouth, where the flat of Harry's tongue meets the underside of Eggsy's finger and curves up on either side to lick it clean with a starving swipe. The sweetness and tartness of the blackberry cream floods his mouth—then Eggsy's tongue is there as well, it's _his tongue_ that touches Harry's mouth before his lips do, which is such a beautifully backwards approach to a kiss that a galaxy of goosebumps shivers right up the length of Harry's spine to explode like fireworks in his brain. He sits perfectly still, unwilling to move in case it shatters this tentative little soap-bubble moment, and lets Eggsy explore him: Eggsy's tongue, careful and uncharacteristically timid, flickers tiny hesitant touches to the sugar traces on Harry's lower lip, and when he swallows audibly the shivering little breath he lets out after falls as warm as a kiss on Harry's mouth, although it's still not a kiss, not yet.

"Harry," Eggsy murmurs, then makes that shaky little laughing sound again when he feels the tip of Harry's tongue tracing the line of his cupid's bow in return. "I think we got it all."

"Yes," Harry agrees. Their noses bump gently. Eggsy sighs again, a quivering lovely hopeful little sound.

"I'm gonna sit on you," he says, then repeats it more decisively, his jaw set the way it is when he's talking himself up to do something brave out on a job. "I'm gonna fucking sit on you for a bit. Right on your lap." He's still holding the last bite of the flattened eclair, and when he's swung his leg over to straddle Harry's thighs he eats the biscuit and pastry layers and once again holds his his messy fingertips to Harry's mouth. "Is this alright?" he asks, watching with his licked-pink mouth half open as Harry devours the last of the cream out of the creases of his knuckles. "Me just... on you."

Rude to speak with your mouth full, of course, so Harry nods his head, still sucking the tip of Eggsy's thumb even though it no longer tastes of anything but skin. Eggsy watches, silent, mesmerised, and it strikes Harry as ridiculous, suddenly, that Eggsy is looking at him like this, as if he truly has no idea what kind of impossible magic he casts on Harry's good sense and ability to breathe any time he's close enough.

He lets Eggsy's thumb go at last, and Eggsy's hands immediately go to Harry's face, cupping his jaw, stroking the cropped hair behind his ears. Harry's own hands find Eggsy's waist, smoothing the crinkles in his t-shirt over the fiery warmth of his skin and edging around to rest behind him at the place where his lower back begins to swell gently out to form the tantalising curve of his bottom.

"Yeah," Eggsy says, laughing shakily again, "please, just— _everywhere_ , just fucking put your hands everywhere, alright?"

"I'm absolutely disgusted that you put clothes on," Harry murmurs against Eggsy's cheek and the soft golden bristles of several days without shaving, reaching under the hem of Eggsy's t-shirt searching for the elastic waistband of his horrible shorts. "I was enjoying that view _so much_."

He can feel the warm breath of Eggsy's laughter on his ear. "I thought I was freaking you out with my nips."

"Well, you were, although not in the way you thought. Will you take these off again for me?"

The t-shirt vanishes so quickly it's like it was never there at all, flung across the room somewhere out of the way. It leaves Eggsy's hair standing up in all directions: between that and the gorgeous way he's blushing, he looks as though he's been fucked already before they've even kissed.

"Coulda done this before you left," Eggsy says, winding his arms around Harry's neck. "I was in better shape then. Ain't been in the gym in months."

"You're perfect," Harry tells him, pressing his lips to the hollow at the base of Eggsy's throat and his fingers into the flesh of his backside below the leg hems of his minuscule underwear, making him gasp another bewildered little laugh. Harry can't find the words big enough to contain this, any of it, and fumbles through some pitiful helpless compliments— _you're beautiful, I don't want to stop looking at you, Flandrin painted you_ —before telling himself to shut up and freeing one of his hands to touch Eggsy's chin, tilting his face up. "May I kiss you," Harry asks softly, "please?" and hopes there's enough lingering behind his voice to say what he wants to and simply can't.

"Yeah, alright," Eggsy says, right in Harry's ear. He's so close that Harry can't see his grin, but he can feel the motion of it spreading across Eggsy's face. "But you best get that hand back on my arse while you're doing it."

Not usually a great fan of being told what to do, Harry takes this particular bit of instruction and runs with it: his tongue finds Eggsy's plush wet lower lip again, the ridge of his teeth, then his tongue and then they're kissing at last for real and Harry is hauling Eggsy closer to him with both hands trapped beneath his tiny underpants, cupping the glorious curves of his bare backside. Eggsy's cock is rock hard already from all the filthy finger-sucking, distorting the tiny scrap of fabric, and the realisation jolts through Harry like lightning when Eggsy moans softly through his nose and tightens his fingers in Harry's hair, rocking against him.

"Got no johnnies in the house or nothing," Eggsy says between wet hungry kisses all over Harry's mouth and cheeks and chin. "Ain't really been in the mood for entertaining lately. But I will literally fucking jizz in my undies right here in like fifteen seconds."

"No," Harry pleads, plaintive rather than authoritarian because this cannot _cannot_ end so soon. He tightens his grip, fingertips sinking deep into the soft flesh of Eggsy's arse and parting his cheeks, resettling him impossibly closer so he can feel the bulge of Harry's cock tilting up behind his balls and nudging the fabric of his underpants against the sensitive pucker of his hole.

"Oh my fuck that ain't helping," Eggsy says, or more like gasps, half-laughing again and wavering between horrified and delighted at what's happening to him. "I'll come, fucking pinch me or something, I don't wanna come yet, so embarrassing." But the pinch Harry dutifully delivers to a handful of his arse makes him cry out with a wobbly fervour that seems to take him by surprise, because he covers his mouth with his hands the way he does when he's just accidentally said a swear word in front of Daisy and his eyes go huge above them.

"Alright?" Harry checks, breathless, mouth tingling from Eggsy's ferocious kisses. "I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

"Yeah, I mean, kind of the opposite of hurt." He clambers off Harry's lap then, squeezing one hand at his crotch and wearing an expression on his wonderful face like he's just won the lottery. "So, that's new. Best not do that again for a bit or I'll fucking faint."

" _God_ ," Harry murmurs. He wipes his wet mouth on his sleeve but otherwise doesn't move— _can't_ move, not while Eggsy's standing there topless and sweating and hard with his mouth kissed a dark blushing pink and that streaking sunlight making his golden stubble shine on every curve and angle of his face like glitter. "You're... you have no idea, do you?"

"What?" Eggsy asks, grinning again but faltering a bit over it like he's not quite sure of what to expect. "You ain't disappointed you never got a crack at me when I had cheekbones?"

"The idea that I might be allowed _a crack_ at you at all is barely believable," Harry tells him, "and now more than ever." The room feels like an oven, and he wriggles out of his jacket and unfastens his tie and top shirt button, managing to do it without ever looking away from Eggsy: the lines of his body, muscular and strong and powerful and gleaming with sweat that Harry desperately wants to lick off him, and his face, flushed and beautiful, and his terrible shorts misshapen at the crotch by his off-limits cock. Harry's struck with the sense that something marvellous is about to happen, and it's not only the fleeting thrill of getting to touch him again when he's ready—it's something impossibly more vast and wonderful, that even in his most self-indulgent dreams he never would have dared to believe might actually happen.

"Harry—"

"Please take those awful shorts off. Burn them, ideally."

Eggsy's pretending to be annoyed, but he's blushing too much and biting his lip to hold back his grin. This is one of their oldest ongoing arguments, as comfortable and comforting as a cup of tea. "Be nice to my shorts or you ain't getting what's inside," he says sternly, though it doesn't have quite the right effect because he's dragging them down his legs so hastily that it takes his underpants a little way with them, revealing a gloriously tempting inch of what Eggsy gleefully calls _bum cleavage_ any time they happen to see a builder or someone in the street with sagging trousers. He's aware of it, hands flying down to his waistband to hitch the pants back up, but there must be something in Harry's face that stops him. Instead he lifts his pointed eyebrow, smirking over his shoulder at Harry and resting his hands on the bared skin of his hips instead.

"That what you're here for, hey?"

"Among many, many other things."

"List them," Eggsy says. He adjusts his stance slightly, feet a little further apart, twisting a bit more at the waist like he's caught between the desire to look at Harry and the desire to continue showing off how absolutely sensational his arse looks. "Count me down a top five, least important to most."

"Your neck," Harry says, and moving as swiftly as he does in the middle of a fight he unfurls himself from the sofa and wraps his arms around Eggsy's waist from the back, dipping his head to nose through his hair. It's still damp from the shower he must have taken before Harry arrived and smells sweet and fruity and almondy, like bakewell tart. Inhaling him, filling his lungs with him, Harry sets his teeth into the soft skin below Eggsy's jawline and very gently bites down.

" _Fuuuck_ ," Eggsy groans, tilting his head to urge him on.

Harry bites him again, harder, sucking the trapped little patch of skin enough to redden it when he lets it go, though not quite hard enough to bruise. "Here," he murmurs, one hand travelling up from Eggsy's waist to his throat and coming to rest with his first two fingertips brushing the dark little mole beneath his chin. "Every time you breathe or speak or swallow this thing moves. No matter where you are in a room, or where I am, it catches my eye like a fucking diamond."

"Bite me again," Eggsy says, or whispers; they're close enough that he barely even has to breathe the words for Harry to hear him, and when he does hear the words burrow into him and set his insides on fire. He bites down again, harder still, and Eggsy almost melts in his arms.

"You like this?"

"Fuck yeah."

The next bite is longer, sucking pinpricks of blood up to mark Eggsy's skin with a mottled red bruise that makes a skitter of helpless _uh, uh_ little gasps tumble out of his mouth on his next exhale. "Did you know you liked this before now?"

"Nope. Plant a flag in your new discovery."

"I have, I think," Harry says, wondering whether he should try to sound more apologetic about it than he actually feels. He kisses the mark, gently this time. "It'll bruise. Do you mind?"

Eggsy's quiet laughter sounds amazed and disbelieving. "No. What's number four?"

"Well, I might want to bite that as well."

"Who's stopping you?"

Good question. Harry leaves Eggsy's neck with one last kiss on the sore spot and manoeuvres him around the edge of the coffee table until his feet bump up against his huge Millwall-blue beanbag. He sits when Harry starts to kneel, bare legs opening almost as wide as his eyes.

"It's just ridiculous how much I want to fucking devour you," Harry murmurs, hushed and muffled with his lips pressing a line of messy wet kisses from Eggsy's knee up to the middle of his inner thigh and then, as invited, biting the soft swell of flesh. Eggsy's fine leg hairs tickle Harry's mouth and nose, and he hopes he doesn't do an explosive sneeze and wreck the lilting breathlessness of the moment. "You've never looked more beautiful."

Eggsy's fingers find Harry's head, raking through his hair to hold him close. "Don't stop."

When Harry sinks his teeth into the meat of Eggsy's other thigh, he can feel Eggsy's shuddering exhale send tremors through his whole body. "Talking or biting?"

"Both."

He bites again and again, harsh and deep, soothing each rising bruise with a licking kiss. Eggsy's thigh muscles are thrumming with the effort to stay still and Harry wants to tell him _don't, you don't have to, I want to see exactly what you're feeling_ but before he can fumble the words together Eggsy moans another stunned little plea and just about fucking stops his heart.

"Harry... tell me three two and one quick cos I'll fucking come if you bite me one more time, I swear to god."

"Three, here," Harry says immediately, swallowing down the flutter of his own racing heart and sliding one hand up the underside of Eggsy's right thigh to lift it and press it close to his chest, revealing the tender pale skin of his backside and the stamped red line where the elastic around the leg opening of his absurd underpants has slipped sideways. "God, here. The crease at the top of your thigh. The curve, right here"—he pauses to stroke his fingertips across the roundest part of Eggsy's cheek, stretched from the position of his leg and half-sunk in the beanbag which perhaps was a less optimal choice than the sofa or the carpet but it's too bloody late now.

Eggsy laughs again, breathless and awed, staring at Harry like he's never been complimented before. "Yeah, there's a _lot_ of bum there if you're a bum man. Enjoy."

"Well, I am, and I intend to." Barely thinking about what he's doing, just rushing with an instinct, Harry dips his head to mouth a kiss on that red mark where the elastic was digging into Eggsy's flesh. "You'd better sit up and kiss me if the biting ban is still in place because I'm one second away from bruising you so hard here that you won't be able to sit for a week without thinking of me."

"Oh my god, fuck you," Eggsy gasps, half-laughing, half-distressed, "you can't just fucking _say_ things like that, I'm literally in _pain_."

Weakly he pushes Harry's hands away from his thighs and struggles to sit up in the beanbag, slipping his bare arms around Harry's shoulders to draw him down on top of his sweating body and into a kiss that lasts for so long that when they finally part Harry becomes aware that he can feel a damp spot soaking through his suit trousers from Eggsy's dripping cock, which is sticking up ridiculously now from the top of his little pants. The realisation knocks him back almost like a punch, a physical jolt of disbelieving, greedy pleasure, and he goes for Eggsy's mouth again with a fervour bordering on rough, licking in between his lips. Eggsy strains up to him, dragging him closer with his fingers wound through Harry's wrecked sweaty hair and his sprawled wide bitten bruised thighs coming up to press against the sides of Harry's waist, as though he'd wrap his legs right around if he only had the energy.

"Guessing this is two?" Eggsy asks, eyebrows raised, as he tilts his hips and nudges his cock against Harry's, and Harry can only gasp and nod his head. It knocks his glasses crooked, but they're steaming up anyway and keep slipping down the sweaty ledge of his nose so he snatches them off and throws them onto the coffee table and this time when he kisses Eggsy there's nothing between them but their hot mingled breath and the gentle, wordless pleas and whimpers trapped in every exhale. "So what's number one, then?" Eggsy asks, gulping for air and wriggling beneath the weight of Harry's body. It's making the beanbag pellets squeak under him in a way that would probably give both of them the uncontrollable giggles if they weren't quite this close to humping each other to a messy, inelegant climax like a pair of randy Eton boys.

"You must know," Harry says, helplessly staring at the unfocused blur of Eggsy's face. Eggsy surges up to kiss him again, demanding and desperate, hauling Harry down on top of him by the front of his shirt and fumbling for the buttons.

"Tell me," he says, beseeching more than demanding, as his hot fingers find Harry's skin and scrape gentle fingernail-lines through his sweat and chest hair. He struggles lower, inching between the closeness of their bodies to search for Harry's fly buttons and then for his cock, drawing the soaked wet head of it out of his underwear and stroking it with a touch that makes Harry's entire nervous system sing.

"It's just you," Harry manages, trying and thoroughly failing not to fuck so wantonly into the grasping circle of Eggsy's slick fingers; even now he feels he needs to try and retain at least a glimmer of respectability, but it's out of habit more than anything and the ravenous delight in Eggsy's eyes makes him abandon it soon enough.

"Which bit?" Eggsy asks, but his eyebrows are raised again and those dimples are out in full fucking force either side of his grin. He knows. He knows, but Harry says it anyway.

"All of you. Your company. Your tantrums, the way you laugh. The way you make _me_ laugh. All the things you argue for with such fire and eloquence. And the fucking obscene way you eat cream cakes, and how you just lie about in pornographic underwear two sizes too small because you feel comfortable in it."

"Starting to think you're a bit obsessed with my pants."

Harry shifts on top of him and Eggsy's hand falls away, a needy little throaty moan spilling out from his pretty pink mouth when he feels the press and friction of their bare wet cocks grinding against each other again. "A bit," Harry agrees mildly. "Will you come in them for me?"

That startled little giggle again. "God, you're a perv. I fucking knew you would be. I mean, I _hoped_ you would be." Eggsy takes Harry's face in his hands then, stroking sweaty strands of hair back from his forehead and looking, it feels, at every single atom of him as though he needs to learn the topography of Harry's face for an exam. "What if I give you items one to five all at once and throw in the pants as a bonus?"

He pushes Harry away from him, first with hands gently on his shoulders and then when Harry's reluctant to leave the heat of his body Eggsy prods him in the hip with his foot until, grudgingly, he moves. "What do you— _oh_."

The rest of Harry's breath wobbles out of him in a long and longing sigh when Eggsy turns over from his back to his front, draping himself languidly across the beanbag then reaching back to slip his preposterous underwear down just below the exquisite curve of his arse. "Come here," he says softly, glancing back over his shoulder with a look that could melt glass. "Left hand on number five"—he winds his fingers with Harry's and draws his hand up until it's resting on Eggsy's sweating neck, thumb on his nape and fingers curling gently around the side—"and right hand on two." Harry absolutely doesn't need guiding to that one but he thrills in it anyway, in Eggsy's fingers showing him exactly where and how fast and how hard he wants to be touched. Breathless now, Eggsy concludes, "And yeah, I suppose just fucking go for it in the three and four."

"Fucking unbelievable," Harry murmurs, leaning over to kiss the place on the back of Eggsy's neck where his thumb is resting. He's not quite sure whether he means Eggsy's sass and gorgeous presumption or the sort of unbelievable that makes him question whether he's having an extremely lucid and marvellous dream, but maybe it's both. Eggsy always was so very many things all at once, all of them surprising and all of them wonderful beyond reason, and if Harry's not dreaming now there's no doubt he'll be playing today over and over in his waking and sleeping thoughts for a ridiculously long time to come.

The tight space between Eggsy's bitten-raw thighs is sticky already with sweat and saliva, not really wet enough for the purpose they're putting it to until the helpless drip of Harry's cock slicks its own way. The too-tight underpants stretched around the widest part of Eggsy's thighs are keeping his legs pinned together and when Harry slides between them he can feel the clench of solid muscle beneath his soft bitten flesh. He remembers seeing Eggsy out on missions blithely leaping onto his attackers' shoulders in the middle of a fight and snapping their necks between the rough clamp and twist of his thighs as he's shooting two others dead at the same time in opposite directions. There are things that can be trained into a person, and some things that decidedly can't, and Eggsy's brutal bravery is all his own. The memory makes Harry stutter, a flooding wave of heat racing through him, then he grasps Eggsy harder around the hip and throat and rocks so fiercely in between the dripping hot squeeze of his marked thighs that he feels the head of his cock bump up against the fabric of the beanbag.

"You pop a hole in that with your knob and there's gonna be trouble," Eggsy says, twisting back to grin at him, exhilarated and flushed dark in the cheeks.

"Is it washable? I'm sure it's already ruined." Harry pulls Eggsy back onto him, picking up a fast, shallow rhythm into the slickness between his legs and reaching around his body to give Eggsy a hand to thrust into. It makes him whine softly, arching his back with a languid flexibility that makes Harry's mouth flood with saliva he has to swallow away before he speaks again: "Darling," he says, and barely recognises the throaty groan of his own voice. Incredibly, that faltering little endearment proves more than either of them can cope with and Harry feels the pulse of Eggsy's cock in his hand and the warm wet splashes all over his fingers when he comes trembling with a cry that sounds wrenched from the very edge of his soul. His own finish is near-silent but for the burst of a held breath breaking free, hips pressed so close to the curve of Eggsy's backside as he's coming and coming and coming between his thighs that when he finally gathers himself enough to withdraw, their sweat-sticky skin peels apart reluctantly like lips at the end of a lingering kiss.

"Definitely fucking ruined," Eggsy says, heaving for breath, though he doesn't seem to care all that much because he collapses on his front right in the cooling wet patch, arms falling limply out to the sides and his underpants still stretched halfway down his legs. Sitting back on his heels to tuck his own spent cock back into his damp underwear, Harry wants to do nothing else for the rest of time but _look_ : at the mess he's made, the gleaming white flecks of come beginning to slide down the bruises he bit all over the inside and back of Eggsy's thighs and soaking into the fabric of his pants, and just at Eggsy himself in all his unselfconscious nakedness. All his curves and marks and scars, the long indentation of his spine, the way his broad shoulders are moving up and down and up and down more slowly with every breath as he begins to come down from his high.

"I'll buy you a new one."

"Harry, shut up and just come here." Eggsy reaches one bare arm out behind himself, opening and closing his fingers until Harry knee-walks close enough for him to get a handful of shirt—then Eggsy twists sideways to look at him and laughs, startled and delighted. "Can't believe you never even got your clothes off and here I fucking am goods all on show to the whole world."

"You belong in an art gallery," Harry tells him helplessly, eyes still roaming with a feverish hunger all over Eggsy's bare gleaming skin. "Exactly like this. Bruises, and these elastic lines, and come all over you."

"Take a picture if you want," Eggsy offers, eyebrows arching again above his sated, laughing eyes. He props his forearms under himself on the beanbag, arching his back like before so it tilts his arse at the most unspeakably inviting angle. Harry wants to dive right back in and bite him there as well, dig fingertips into the beautiful soft meat of his cheeks and hold them apart and suck bruises all over him, chase the smears and drips of his own come with his mouth right up to Eggsy's hole and tongue him until he comes again or faints like he threatened, whichever happens first.

"I don't need to. I'll remember this."

"Don't need to remember it, either." Eggsy turns over onto his back; it's awkward with his thighs still trapped together by the underpants and very, very enjoyable to watch. He starts to pull them back up over his softening cock, then makes a face and drags them right down and off his feet, shaking them out and trying to fold them in such a way that the worst of the come stains are in the middle. "Promised you a little bonus, didn't I?" he says, reaching for the loose open waistband of Harry's trousers and urging him closer until he's kneeling between Eggsy's spread thighs, then he tucks the trashed underwear into Harry's pocket. "Nice little snack for you later. Chew on that flashback."

"Don't be vile," Harry tells him, but the irresistible, infectious sparkle of laughter in Eggsy's eyes and dimpled cheeks takes him over, and for the next ten minutes at least they lie there, Eggsy fully naked and Harry fully clothed, kissing and breathing and thrilling in this new, glorious permission to _touch_.

Suddenly Eggsy stops sucking Harry's fingertips and gets a look on his face like a spooked meerkat. "Oh my god."

"Darling? What?"

"I just remembered we still got three cakes left!"


End file.
